


It's Something

by PhilipJFright



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, and like. scars on moe's arms, but i figured it was better to mention it so people were aware, nothing explicit except for the alcohol and talking very directly about how burns treats smithers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 02:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15832182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhilipJFright/pseuds/PhilipJFright
Summary: Moe and Waylon aren't really sure how to describe their relationship, but like a lot of things in their lives, it's something.





	It's Something

To anyone else, it would have looked like Waylon Smithers had gotten himself plastered before he got to Moe’s. He looked absolutely bedraggled-- glasses askew, hair mussed, with dark bags under his eyes, slumped over. But Moe had seen Smithers drunk before… once or twice before their short partnership, a handful of times during it, and many, _many_ times after.

This wasn’t what Smithers was like when he was drunk, this was what he was like when he really needed to be.

He decided not to comment on Waylon’s sorry state-- Moe knew better than anyone being told you look like crap is the last thing you needed when you _felt_ like crap, instead settling on a simple, “… Ain’t seen you around here in a while.”

“Haven’t felt rotten enough to wanna be here,” Waylon said hoarsely, sitting down on the stool across from him.

A small part of the bartender thought he should probably be offended by that, but, honestly, that was completely fair. People who felt good about themselves didn’t come to see Moe, or at least they hadn’t for a while. Waylon wasn't an exception to that. So Moe snorted and started to grab a bottle from up above the bar. “So, must’ve been a hell’ve a day t’wanna see my mug, huh?”

Waylon let out a dry laugh, absentmindedly picking at the sleeve of his jacket. “… It’s certainly up there.” The man had taken off his glasses and was rubbing his temple tiredly, leaning awkwardly on the bar counter, only putting weight on one arm. “I’ll have a--”

“Scotch an’ water,” Moe finished for him, placing a bottle and a glass on the table. He smirked, raising a brow. “I know whatcha like, Waylon. Always get the same damn thing.” Waylon noticed that the bottle was a nicer one, one of the few that wasn’t heavily diluted. Moe always did for Waylon, a sort of backwards routine of getting him the good stuff and watering it down in front of him. But there was a gesture of some kind in choosing that bottle and taking that extra step, an amount of care the bartender didn’t show for anyone else, and Waylon always appreciated it, even if neither man was willing to acknowledge out loud what exactly the gesture meant.

Smithers put his glasses back on and downed his drink quickly, before looking around and lighting a cigarette. He hadn’t noticed before, but it was empty. “… Slow night.”

The bartender shrugged noncommittally, refilling the drink and pulling out an ashtray before deciding to focus on wiping down a particularly large spot of grime on the counter. “C’mon, y’know the drill. ‘M pretty much down t’you an’ my regulars.”

“If that.”

“Heh, yeah.” Moe stopped cleaning the counter for a moment. Waylon was already mostly done with his second drink and nearly on his second smoke, so Moe poured another two and offered a light, assuming he’d tell him when to stop. “They all got somewhere better t’be, I guess.” He shrugged again, grabbing an empty glass and cleaning it absentmindedly. “Think Lenny an’ Carl are on a date, an’ Homer mentioned somethin’ about a family birthday comin’ up this week… One’ve the kids, I think….” Waylon grabbed the third drink gingerly and took a swig, watching him work on the glass as he talked. He wondered if it was even doing any good-- both the glass and the rag seemed filthy, so either one cleaning the other seemed unlikely. He looked down at his own glass, a little flattered though not particularly surprised to find it spotless, save for a chip on the handle. “...It ain’t Magpie’s birthday, so I guess that narrows it down some. Barn ain’t been in here for a while now, he--”

God, that rag was _disgusting_. He was trying to focus on whatever Moe was talking about, he really was, but he just couldn’t stop staring at that thing. Had it always been this dirty? This was the rag Moe always used, it wasn’t new, and he’d been in here countless times, so why was he only just _now_ noticing how horrifying that thing was? Waylon didn’t think of himself as being particularly germaphobic, he really _couldn’t_ be with all of Mr. Burns’ health issues, but he was honestly at the point of gagging looking at that thing. Did Moe ever _clean_ it? He had to, right? He hadn’t used it when they ran the bar together, had he? Waylon was sure he would have noticed-- but then, how many times had he come back to Moe’s in the many months since they broke off their partnership? He hadn’t realized how dirty it was any other time he’d been in the tavern… Jesus, it was a wonder nobody had gotten sick...

Actually, he didn’t know for sure that nobody had ever gotten sick on account of that rag. It was possible. _Christ_ , had they been poisoning their patrons? Waylon was sure he would have noticed-- when they had worked together, Waylon had spent a lot of the time with Moe, and he’d certainly seen him clean glasses. Then again, there was a lot about Moe that Waylon hadn’t really noticed until after they’d broken off their partnership, so it was completely possible that--

“-- Oh, _geez_ \--”

Waylon blinked, his train of thought lost with the sound of Moe’s voice. He just now noticed that the counter was wet, and his first thought was that he had been so distracted watching the bartender clean that he’d accidentally spilled one of his drinks, but when he went to pick up whatever glass he’d tipped over he found them empty, but upright.

And only his arm seemed wet--

_Fuck._

He hadn’t realized, because he’d been so distracted, that he’d leaned on his arm-- the one he’d been using so gingerly, the one he’d been so careful not to put any weight on.

And now he was drenching Moe’s counter with blood.

He opened his mouth to tell Moe that it was fine, nowhere near as bad as it looked, but he was stopped by the fact that the man, in the course of a few seconds, suddenly looked like a nervous wreck. Anxiousness wasn’t too abnormal for Moe, Waylon had noticed long ago that the bartender very rarely looked comfortable in his own skin, but this was a sort of anxiousness and genuine _fear_ that Smithers hadn’t seen from him before. He was pale, and his eyes were wide, staring almost through the bloody arm on the counter. There was a look on his face, behind the panic, of something that was almost akin to pity, but without any of the condescension-- Waylon really didn’t know _what_ to call it. His hands were drawn up to his chest and he opened and closed them nervously, clasping at nothing.

Waylon cleared his throat. “It’s not as ba--”

“Lemme look at that,” Moe said, at the same time. The voice was a bit croakier than usual, and a little too high pitched.

“... What?” Waylon looked up at the man, brow furrowed.

“ _That._ Your--” Moe gestured awkwardly at the arm, taking a deep breath, almost steeling himself. “ … Look, I know how t’... y’know, handle…” he trailed off, and cocked his head towards the arm again, “I-- I won’t ask no questions or nothin’, I promise, I just-- I…” He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice almost seemed normal. “Don’t want ya bleedin’ t’death on my counter, y-y’know?” he tried at a laugh, but it didn’t really come out right. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he ducked under the counter, grabbing a box from underneath and opening it. It looked like a first aid kit, one that had been practically untouched, save for the half empty disinfectant and the roll of bandages, which seemed to have been restocked many times. A battered slip of paper was taped to the inside lid of the box-- it looked like a phone number of some kind, but Waylon couldn’t tell whose number it was.

“… I wouldn’t make ya do this if it weren’t gushin’ but, uh…” Moe ran a hand through his hair before reaching across the bar. “O-okay, lemme see your arm-- like I said, won’t ask no questions, it just-- y’know, it gets worse if ya just let it…” he stopped for a moment, trying to choose his words, before weakly finishing his thought with, “...if ya don’t do anything about it.”

Waylon stared at him for a second or two, before sighing and grimacing, pulling up his sleeve. He had bled through his bandages, meaning that dried blood practically glued them to his arm, and he winced when Moe cautiously took his hand and started to peel the fabric away. He couldn't bear to look as the blood-soaked bandages pulled the scabs from his mauled arm, and he was dreading what Moe's reaction to the mess would be.

“...Oh.”

Waylon wasn’t sure what reaction he was expecting from Moe-- a wince, a grimace, asking what the hell had happened, something along those lines maybe-- but he certainly wasn’t expecting embarrassment… and yet, there Moe was, looking almost _ashamed_ as he examined the nasty dog bites littering his the other man’s arm. “... That, uh… that ain’t…”

“What?”

Moe cleared his throat, getting redder as he finished taking off the bandages, looking away from the injured arm. “... Never mind. It’s nothin’.” His voice was still soft and he cleared his throat yet again. “...Glad it ain’t what I thought.”

Waylon blinked for a moment, mind a bit fuzzy, not really understanding what Moe was talking about, just staring at Moe’s shaking hands, still gently holding his arm up. He furrowed his brow and watched as those hands let go-- still surprisingly gently-- and made their way back to the first aid kit on the counter, fumbling around for a bottle of antiseptic. The lid had been tossed off the box and was facing him now, letting him get a better look at the number, which-- _oh._

Waylon’s eyes traveled from the all too familiar number back to his friend’s scarred hands, and, with a sudden empty, sinking feeling in his stomach, it clicked.

“Moe,” he started cautiously, “it’s not--”

“Yeah, I know that _now,_ ” the bartender said gruffly, almost defensively, before his eyes flickered up to meet the other man’s. He softened slightly, and some of the tension he seemed to be carrying melted. “And I’m glad it ain’t. Really, I-- I _really_ am.”

Waylon couldn’t help but glance at the abundance of empty glasses next to him and the ashtray beside them, nearly full already. He wasn’t really sure if his way of coping was that much healthier than Moe’s, but he decided against pointing it out, instead wincing slightly as Moe began to apply the antiseptic to his bites. He watched the man start to unravel the roll of bandages before supplying both his arm and an answer to the question Moe had avoided asking.

“It was the hounds…” he looked miserably at his arm as Moe began to wrap it up. “They’re… well, they’re nicer to me than they are most people, but today I had to give them their shots…”

“Ain’t Burnsie got a vet for that? Figured he’d have one for each mutt.” Moe was barely looking at him, focused more on dressing the arm.

Smithers watched him work for a moment more before shaking his head. “He… he’s convinced the dogs are more comfortable when I administer the shots, so I do all their checkups.”

“An’ screw _your_ comfort, right?”

“... Moe--”

“He pay y’any more for playin’ nurse?”

“... No.”

“He dress your wounds after they maul ya, or you patch yourself up?”

Waylon sighed, putting another cigarette between his lips, holding it between his teeth and lighting it with his free hand. “...He made me finish the rest of the dogs, then gave me a few minutes to clean myself off. After that I did his laundry.”

Moe scowled, reaching into the box for some scissors to cut the roll. “Figures.”

“He told the dogs to get off me, though. It took a minute, but…” It was a weak defense of the old miser and Smithers knew it, so he wasn’t surprised by Moe’s lackluster response.

“Well, ain’t he a saint.” Moe snipped the bandage then, putting the supplies back in the box before stopping. “... Y’got any more?”

“... A few small ones on my leg, but they didn’t break skin.”

The bartender nodded and put the first aid kit back under the bar, close enough that he could reach it easily if it turned out Waylon was underplaying the bites on his leg. He sighed then, going back to wiping down a glass, keeping an eye on Waylon’s arm to make sure it didn’t start to bleed through again.

Smithers finished another smoke, watching Moe clean. It was the same glass he had been cleaning earlier, and, considering the ferocity he was using to clean it, something else was on his mind.

“... Moe, if you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

The bartender looked at him, cocking a brow, before shaking his head and turning his attention back to the glass. “Nah. You’ve heard it a million times already, and y’don’t like hearin’ it, and I don’t like sayin’ it, so we can skip this part’ve the song an’ dance.”

“... So I don’t have to hear you telling me to quit my job?”

“S’long as I don’t have t’hear y’defend the bastard.”

Smithers propped his chin in the palm of his good hand and tiredly flicked some ash into the overflowing ashtray on the table. “... Deal.”

Moe leaned against the back shelf, watching the other man smoke, still scrubbing at the glass furiously. He worked in silence for a moment or two, which Waylon thought was an impressive act of restraint knowing Moe, before Waylon said, “... You really want to say it, don’t you?”

“I know there ain’t a point.”

Smithers nodded, finished off his drink, and went, “But…”

“... But I just don’t get why y’don’t wanna bash the jerk’s brains in,” Moe finished. There was an odd lack of anger in the bartender’s voice-- more than anything he seemed drained. Smithers didn’t respond, but looked at Moe, seeming just as tired as he was. The truth was, Moe knew why, and Waylon knew he knew. Moe just didn’t like the answer.

So instead of providing an answer that they both knew and equally hated, Waylon just asked, “... Feel any better?”

Moe snorted. “Nah. Knew I wouldn’t.”

Waylon couldn’t help but chuckle himself, taking another long drag from his cigarette. “You never do.” He was grateful, in many ways, that Moe’s was empty tonight. He knew it couldn’t be good for the man behind the counter, but he preferred having the bartender to himself. It was the only time the two had any good conversations. “So, how have things been on your end?” It had been a month or so since he’d been in the tavern, the longest gap he’d been away since their partnership had ended. It hadn’t been intentional, but… it had happened. Things had been going well. He hadn’t felt the need to feel numb in a while.

Moe shrugged again-- he seemed to be doing a lot of that tonight-- and set the glass down, instead opting to fiddle with the filthy rag he was holding. “Y’know… nothin’ new.”

“... That bad?” It almost sounded like a joke, but both men knew that it wasn’t.

“Well, I mean… it ain’t _worse’n_ usual, mostly, so… It ain’t improved none but… Normal’s somethin’.”

Waylon chuckled again, more dryly this time. “Yeah. Normal’s something.”

He stared down at his drink again-- had Moe refilled his glass, or had he just made a few in advance? Truth be told, he wasn’t sure. He peered into his scotch, looking at his reflection. Hair all over the place, face red, bags under his eyes dark enough to be bruises-- he looked like a fucking wreck, and once again, he was selfishly grateful that Moe was the only other person in the bar.

Moe, who had stopped leaning against the counter, and who had grown tense again, wringing his hands, trying to decide whether or not he wanted to say what was at the tip of his tongue.

“... Haven’t needed t’call the hotline in a month.”

He didn’t say it very loudly, but he hadn’t needed to-- the bar was, after all empty, and the only sounds permeating the smoke filled air were the creaking pipes and a distant siren wailing somewhere across town. Smithers blinked into his drink, processing what Moe had said-- his head was a bit fuzzy, he had downed his scotch too fast-- then perking up, looking at him with wide eyes and something that was almost a smile. “... That’s _definitely_ something.”

Moe grinned hesitantly, glanced at the tavern door and, tossing off his apron, made his way from behind the bar counter and scootched onto the stool next to Waylon, who raised a brow in surprise, glancing at the door as well.

“Don’t worry,” Moe said, waving a hand. “You’re th’first person other’n me t’come in here in four days, I think I’m safe t’sit down.”

The other man screwed his face up in concern-- he knew the bar was empty tonight, but four nights without Moe seeing _any_ of his regulars? “... Business is really that bad?”

The older man nodded, running a hand down his face, the hesitant grin gone. “Barn’s serious about goin’ sober. It’s been… geez, two weeks now, which don’t seem like much, but for Barney…”

“... It’s something?” Waylon finished.

Moe snorted, voice sounding a bit bitter. “It’s somethin’... Midge’s been up Homer’s ass about spendin’ time with the kids, and I ain’t exactly a hot date spot, so now that the other guys are all paired up…”

Smithers frowned, thinking for a moment, trying to remember the names of the two regulars he saw in the bar occasionally. “What about the other two?”

“... Lenny an’ Carl?”

“No, no, I know them, the _other_ two....”

“... Sam an’ Larry?” Moe supplied, and Waylon nodded. The bartender propped a bony elbow on sticky countertop and cradled his chin in his hand. “Same as Lenny an’ Carl. Like I said, I ain’t a hot date spot.”

“Ah.”

They sat in silence for a bit, knees and shoulders touching, listening to the rats scurry across the floorboards under their feet, as Waylon finished another smoke and Moe took a swig from one of the glasses Waylon hadn’t gotten to yet.

“... You happy for Barney being clean so long?” Smithers finally asked, breaking the silence.

Moe looked at him tiredly. “Am I a shit friend if I ain’t?”

“Probably.”

Moe groaned, looking away from Waylon. “Then I’m a shit friend.”

“Hm.”

There was no judgement in Waylon’s reply, and Moe appreciated that, but he still felt the need to explain himself, to make sure Smithers realized he wasn’t a _complete_ bastard.

“Look, I know it’s good for him t’not be drinkin’, an’ if I was just his friend and not his bartender I’d prob’ly encourage it or whatever, but… his drinkin’s the only way I can keep my head above water.”

There still wasn’t judgement in Smithers’ voice when he said, very plainly, “But he never pays his tab.”

The bartender sighed again, exhausted, and, subconsciously, he crumpled in on himself, leaning onto both the counter of the bar, and onto Waylon, who didn’t push him away. “Well... At least if he keeps comin’ to my bar I can pretend like I’m makin’ money.” He took the rag from off his shoulder, playing with it nervously, eyes flickering towards the other man-- he’d realized now that he’d started to press against him and he was looking for any sign to get off. Not finding any, he stayed put, resting against the assistant. “I dunno. ‘S long as he’s in here it feels like I’m… stayin’ above water. That at least I got one regular I can count on.”

Moe’s thinking was flawed, for sure-- what was really happening whenever Barney came in was him ringing up more and more of a tab and getting Moe deeper and deeper into debt-- but Waylon could see the logic behind Moe’s thought process. At least, he could understand it from the point of view of someone who understood that kind of desperation. Everyone needed something constant. Barney was Moe’s constant.

Waylon craned his neck to see the back room of the bar, noticing the door was slightly ajar. He could see a few things he recognized from Moe’s apartment-- some crayon drawings by Maggie Simpson, a busted old desktop computer, a fuzzy pink robe, a cat carrier. “… You sleeping on the cot again?”

Moe exhaled loudly and nodded. “Yup. It’s alright, leaks less’n my old place. And the cot ain’t so bad, pretty comfy once y’get used t’it.”

Waylon snickered at that despite himself and, without quite realizing why he was saying what he was saying, he muttered, “Well, it can’t be any worse than the bed in your apartment.”

The bartender’s eyes widened and he looked at the other man, the exhaustion on his face being replaced by a grin, more than a little surprised to hear Waylon admit out loud that he’d not only been to Moe’s apartment, but been to his bed. Their occasional visits to each others’ apartments were usually something that remained unmentioned between them once the nights in question were over, and there was something immensely satisfying about the other man casually joking about them. Then the delighted grin melted into a smirk, and he seemed nearly _smug_ for the first time that evening. “First complaint about it I’m hearin’ from _you_. Y’always seemed _more’n_ happy t’use it whenever I took ya back t’my place.”

The smirk and smugness was wiped off of Moe’s face in an instant with a well-aimed kick to the shins. Moe sucked air in through his teeth violently, slamming a hand against the counter, before weakly admitting that he probably deserved that. “But if I’m limpin’ around t’morrow, I’m blamin’ you.”

“I can live with that,” Smithers snorted, eyes widening in surprise when Moe snatched the cigarette from between his lips and took a drag. _“Hey!”_ He almost looked annoyed, but the laugh in his voice betrayed him.

“Well, y’said they got your legs, right? I can’t exactly kick ya back, and punchin’ your arm’d just make ya bleed t’death,” Moe nudged his injured arm, softly, as to not undo the bandages or actually hurt the man, then held up the smoke. “So, consider this payback for the broken foot.”

“Do you even smoke?”

Moe, as if to answer Waylon’s question, coughed loudly. “Nah, not since grade school.” He flicked some ash onto the counter, not even aiming for the ashtray, and twirled the cigarette between his thin fingers, before trying another puff.

Smithers raised a brow-- he wasn’t at all surprised to hear that Moe had been smoking that young, but he was curious about one thing. “How’d you get cigarettes in grade school?” Waylon hadn’t exactly known Moe when they were children-- he’d been a few grades younger than the future barkeep, after all-- but he’d seen him around occasionally, and his memory of Moe as a child was of a stringy, underfed runt with ill-fitting clothes and a face full of acne. Not exactly someone who would be able to pass as eighteen.

“Swiped ‘em off my old man.” The man grinned, showing off his missing teeth. “Used t’take packs from his bedside table, sell what I didn’t smoke on the playground for five bucks a pop. Made some decent money-- dumb kids were more’n willin’ t’pay hand over fist for somethin’ they wouldn’t even use just t’look like a bigshot in fronta their friends, or some girl they liked. I’d look around the playground after school and find a buncha them lyin’ around, barely chewed on, and I’d just sell ‘em again the next day. Sometimes to the same dumbass kid. Sold Homer the same cig every day for three weeks, he never caught on _once_.”

Waylon realized then that he had started to lean on Moe as well, tiredly resting against his shoulder. “Why’d you stop?”

The bartender’s eyes darkened slightly at the question, and he scowled, abruptly putting out the cigarette on the counter. “Pop found out who’d been swipin’ his stash.”

Waylon knew better than to ask anything more after that, and he scootched closer to the man, who was staring at the cigarette nub with distaste.

“... Maybe I should start up the business again though,” Moe finally said, voice seeming far too loud after their moment of silence.

“Selling cigarettes to middle schoolers?”

“I’d prob’ly make more money’n I am with this dump.” He kicked the counter halfheartedly.

Smithers looked at the man sympathetically, biting his lip, and he glanced around the empty bar yet again before his eyes settled back on the scrawny man resting his head against his shoulder. “Anything I can do?”

Said man snorted, rolling his eyes. “You wanna pay Barn’s bar tab? ‘Cause I’d be all for that.”

The assistant chuckled, shifting in his seat slightly, making sure not to push Moe off as he did so. “I don’t think I could even if I wanted to.”

“Bet Burnsie could.” The bartender said it quietly, almost under his breath, but Smithers heard it.

He took a deep breath and pressed a little closer to Moe, reaching for one of the half empty glasses of scotch that were littering the counter. “There’s a lot of things Mr. Burns could do. If he did even half’ve them I wouldn’t be in here.”

“... I don’t think you’d be in here if he did a _tenth’ve_ ‘em.” There wasn’t any bitterness in the bartender’s voice, he was simply stating what he assumed to be a fact, and Waylon couldn’t disagree with it. Moe was staring at his arm again, and, cautiously, he pulled up the sleeve of Smithers’ jacket, sighing when he saw that it had already started to bleed through again, where the bites had been particularly deep. His fingers lingered on the other man’s arm, tentatively stopping at his hand. “... He ever do anything decent?”

“... Sometimes.” He glanced at the hand that was still hovering cautiously over his, watching as Moe lost his nerve and set it down on the bar. Almost absentmindedly, he moved his hand so that it was over Moe’s, running his fingers over the callused knuckles. “I think that’s the most frustrating thing.”

The smaller man had turned red, but he didn’t say anything about the contact, just watching Smithers’ hand as he spoke. “Probably be easier for ya t’stop makin’ excuses for him if he stopped givin’ y’reasons to.”

“... Yeah.” Waylon put out his cigarette, realizing he was down to his last one. He glanced at Moe, but lit it, taking a smaller drag this time, hoping to make this one last. “... So,” he started, changing the subject away from his boss, “other than paying all of Barney’s bills, is there anything I can do?”

Moe shifted uncomfortably in his seat, picking at his old bar rag with his free hand, eyes shifting back down to the old, worn countertop. “... Nah.”

“... Are you sure?” Waylon squeezed Moe’s hand softly then-- so softly that to someone less touch starved, it wouldn’t have even registered. Moe tore his eyes away from the counter at the touch, and Smithers continued. “... To make up for the bandages.”

“... Look, y’don’t gotta make up a dollar’s wortha supplies, but… if you’re askin’...” he let out a deep breath, spreading out his fingers so Waylon’s fingers were between his and closing his fist, so he was holding the man’s hand on top of his. “... It’d make my life easier if the guys paid…” he stopped for a moment, thinking. “... I dunno, five percent’ve their tabs? … Just th’ones that work for ya, I can handle th’rest.”

Smithers laughed softly, thick eyebrows raised, chin resting in the palm of his free, uninjured hand. “... Five percent?”

Moe laughed too, shrugging. “I’m tryin’ t’be realistic.”

“Actually, I was going to say you’re asking too much of them.” Smithers was only half kidding-- five percent really did seem like a pie in the sky number to expect out of Homer, Lenny and Carl-- but the tone was still teasing, as if it were a joke and not a cruddy reality. “ _Two percent_ seems realistic, and knowing them, even that’s stretching it.”

The bartender let go of his bar rag and, with his free hand, rubbed the bridge of his pugged nose, snickering. Waylon was right, of _course_ he was right, and there was something morbidly hilarious about the fact that he would have to kick and scream get the men he called his best friends to pay him even two percent of the hundreds if not thousands they owed him, all so he could move back into a shitty apartment he didn’t even like. “Well,” Moe finally said, between giggles, “Y’think two percent’ll be enough t’get my bed back?”

And at the mention of the bed, Waylon finally broke, putting his forehead in his hand and joining Moe in snickering uncontrollably.

They sat like that that for a minute or two, leaning against each other and laughing, trying to keep themselves upright, and continuing to press against the other, each relying on the other unsteady man to support them so they didn’t both go tumbling down.

Finally the laughter died down, and Moe hiccuped and coughed, loosening his bowtie to breathe a bit better, while Smithers removed his glasses and wiped a few tears from his eyes.

“Well,” Waylon said, still holding the other man’s hand, still sniffling slightly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, after the positive feedback and being struck with another idea, I decided to make this a series. It's probably going to be a non-linear selection of one-shots, (the next chapter is gonna be right after they start their business partnership, for example,) all basically about Moe and Waylon's relationship being in that liminal space of not quite being friends and not quite being together. I'll add tags and characters as the chapters get written, but I can say with absolute certainty that Maggie, Marge and Homer factor into the next chapter!


End file.
